


around me

by jonphaedrus



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: BDSM Scene, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Mouthy sub, Safe Sane and Consensual, Spanking, Subspace, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 04:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9161197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonphaedrus/pseuds/jonphaedrus
Summary: “Honestly,” Clarus pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed. “Was that totally necessary?” Regis was like a tiny, very frustrated, stormcloud. If he’d been able to, he probably would have been breathing sparks and lightning. As it was, his knuckles were white, showing the arthritic curve of them, his pale face flushed with anger. “You didn’t have to make the man cry.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> kmeme prompt! for someone spanking regis for being mouthy that i accidentally turned into incredibly healthy relaxation spanking
> 
> whoops? _(:3」∠)_

Regis had had a short temper ever since they were children. Even when he was ten, the man could tear a person to shreds with naught but his words, and afterward Mors would have to sit his son down and remind him that a King had to be deferential, and kind, and aware of the damage that his words could do. It had been decades since then, of course, but he still, on occasion, would lose the tight reigns on his too-sharp tongue and the result would always be a mess.

“Honestly,” Clarus pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed. “Was that totally necessary?” Regis was like a tiny, very frustrated, stormcloud. If he’d been able to, he probably would have been breathing sparks and lightning. As it was, his knuckles were white, showing the arthritic curve of them, his pale face flushed with anger. “You didn’t have to make the man cry.”

“Oh,” Regis snarled, turning his anger on the nearest person (Clarus), “What would you have me do, then? Just roll over and put my belly in the air?”

“No,” Clarus shot back, “But you could at least be _polite_ as you tear him a new one. Besides,” Clarus sighed, “You don’t need to get angry at me. I haven’t done anything.”

“I don’t need you chiding me like I’m some child.”

“Regis!” _Stars_ but was he glad that the King’s office was pretty much soundproof, because Regis had long-since raised his voice to a shout, and Clarus—albeit hesitantly—put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. It was rather like trying to comfort a spitting cat. Or a porcupine. The King shook him off, and Clarus just returned, hand pressing _harder_ into his shoulder. “Regis. You’re acting like a child.”

“Fuck off, Clarus.” If he’d not started shaving his head to hide his receding hairline, Clarus would have wanted to tear his hair out. Instead, he just put on his best totally blasé face, and sighed.

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Regis kept darting suspicious glances at him, surprised at how quickly Clarus had backed down, but he just straightened his back, arms folded behind him, and cocked a brow. “We’ll continue this later.”

 

 

 _Later_ turned out to be that night, after the boys and Iris had gone, if not to sleep, then to bed. Regis was still in a right temper, storming around pointlessly and banging books onto his shelves as Clarus read, perfectly sedate, in bed. Finally, though, Regis got angrily in bed, and was about to say something probably scathing when Clarus rolled over him and pressed his hand over the other man’s mouth, broad palm covering half his narrow face, Regis’ beard brushing his skin.

Regis looked about eighteen different shades of livid.

“Trust me?” Clarus prompted, and Regis sighed, softened slightly.

“Knights,” he replied. “But I don’t know what the point of this is, Clarus,”

“Sir,” Clarus pointed out to him in gentle reminder as Regis pulled his t-shirt off, throwing it over the side of the bed. It was one Noctis had won in a fishing contest a few years before, and was starting to fray at the hem. Regis continued his tirade, unabated.

“It’s pointless for you to be fucking chiding me when people walk all over me constantly. What’s the good in being a King if you’re too damn weak to stand up by yourself, if you’re constantly ill?” He had to shift awkwardly around his bad knee to shuck his trousers and boxers, throwing both of them off the side of the bed. “I cam barely even summon the Armiger any more, and you’re telling me to _stop yelling at people_ for the _Astrals’ sake_ , Clarus—“ Clarus clapped the hand over his mouth again. Levelled the other man with a glare.

“Reg,” he said, quietly, “I love you, and you make valid points, but there’s a difference between _bringing someone to heel_ and _cutting them apart_.” Angry hazel eyes glared back at him. “I will gag you.” He lifted his hand. Regis kept his mouth shut, and rolled over when Clarus pushed on his thigh, settled over Clarus’ lap on the edge of the bed. He splayed his legs when Clarus nudged him to, and pillowed his chin on his narrow wrists, his sharp shoulderblades standing out against the sagging skin of his back. He kept losing weight. “You don’t have to take it out on me either,” he continued, dragging his palm over the curve of the other man’s ass, skin against skin, a brief touch to the hot muscle of his hole. “Being on-edge and taking it out on the people around you isn’t helping you. Or anyone else.”

Regis didn’t reply, but his sullen silence said all that it needed to. When he got into a black mood, the man could be as childish as Noctis. It was terrifically endearing, if frustrating as hell.

“Count them,” Clarus warned, and the first strike of his open palm against the warm skin of Regis’ ass was loud in their otherwise-quiet bedroom. “We’ll see how you feel at thirty, and if you need more, we can get the belt.” Regis grunted the affirmative, and started count. After all these years, his voice didn’t waver, even as he got hard, rocking his hips and digging his good knee into the mattress. At twenty his neck finally loosened, his head rolling forward into his folded arms, and at thirty the line of tension that had marred his slender back finally lapsed into softness. His ass was pink and tender, but not bruising, not even marks that would last, because Clarus had gone light on him, and he stayed for a long time just squeezing the skin, following sharpness with love.

“More?” He asked at last, and Regis nodded, didn’t otherwise move. Clarus smiled, indulgent, and stretched to the head of the bed to pull open the bedside drawer and get the belt that they’d long-since just given up keeping in the closet and put in there out, folding the leather over in his hand. “How many?”

“Thirty,” Regis mumbled, voice slurred as he dropped further and further away into subspace. Clarus paused for a long moment to thumb over the back of his neck, the dip at the back of his skull, the roundness of his axis and atlas. He’d not had a misaligned back as a young man—that had been, like his knee, another gift from the Crystal. He waited until Regis had settled back down again, his leonine head lowered and his whole body slipping into the easy lassitude of total relaxation.

“There’s my boy,” Clarus murmured, smiling, as he took the belt back. He knew Regis was too far gone to count properly, but he tried anyway, murmuring each number as the belt struck home. He kept shifting, wiggling his hips with each strike, the leather leaving first red stripes and soon, welts and weals over the fragile skin of his ass. Clarus had once been afraid to do this properly with all his strength, afraid of hurting the narrow-hipped Prince-not-yet-King with his fragile bird bones and the sharp, angular tuck of his chin. But Regis had not liked that, and Clarus had learned quickly where to push hard and where he wasn’t pushing hard enough.

At ten strikes, his ass was all red and welting, and Regis had lost count into open-mouthed, wet moans. At fifteen he’d spread his thighs and was moaning, _begging_ for Clarus to do more, hips canted up off of the mattress, his hard cock damp at the base of his stomach as he presented his entrance, fluttering and needy, for Clarus to layer the next ten lines over, until he was whining and begging, pleading. “You asked for five more,” Clarus reminded him, even as Regis started humping his thigh, blissed-out into pleasure and the raw, wet heat of a deep summer thunderstorm, his mouth open and drool on the bedspread. “You get five more.”

He layered the last five over the sensitive seam between cheeks and thighs, right where Regis would sit the next morning so he wouldn’t forget when his ass was sore, and considered asking if he wanted more. Wanted Clarus to leave him purple and yellow bruises on his fair skin, softer than Clarus own. But considering all Regis could do was moan and whine and plead, he doubted that he would be in any fit state to answer a request like that. He was all hard and dripping, and Clarus sighed, pleased, as he picked up the lube from the bedside table, slicked two fingers. “You’re all damp, love.” Regis made a wet noise in the back of his throat, canted his hips up as Clarus scissored into him, curled his fingers to pull his rim out, to get up to the knuckle and then back out again. Regis kept gasping and keening low in his throat as Clarus found the pace he wanted, thumb digging into the King’s perineum and fingertips grinding something bruising and awful into his prostate, massaging it until Regis was begging again, his eyes open and sightless as he stared at the wall, fingers white-knuckled in the bedsheets.

“You can come whenever you want, love,” Clarus murmured, and Regis’ face screwed up as he pressed his cockhead down into Clarus’ knee, sweat dripping in slow lines down over his vertebrae, as the thin muscle in his arms stood out in cords. He came when Clarus got his fourth finger into him, stretching him open, and raw, sloppy with too much lube, gasping, too far-gone to shout.

Clarus gently rolled him over and used his fingers to slick himself, peeling down his sweatpants to get his cock free, before he nudged Regis’ thighs open. It was all-too-easy to roll on top of the younger man, to part his thighs wide, box him in with his powerful arms. Regis took him easy, moaning, his handsome face slack and his eyes glassy with pleasure, drool wet on his lips and chin, head tilted back into the bedspread as Clarus pushed both his wrists down into the sheets. Clarus didn’t last long at all, fucking into the man when he was touch-hot and lube-slick and open and soft post-orgasm, came in him only moments later, face ducked into the warm hollow of his neck, Regis laughing breathlessly, his soft mouth a smile.

He lay there in the afterglow for too-short a time, before he rolled off, soothed Regis gently, pulled out. The other man reached blindly for him, a questioning whine high in his throat, before Clarus took a flannel from the stand and cleaned gently between his thighs and cheeks, his taut stomach, and threw it with their castoff clothes. “I’m coming back,” he promised Regis, who seemed barely aware of where he was or what he was doing, clinging like a whelk to Clarus’ back and mumbling incoherently when he tried to pull away. “You want water, don’t you?” It was at that that Regis finally subsided, a fucked-out sprawl of pale limbs against the dark sheets of his bed, eyes closed and heavy-lidded, sighing impatiently for Clarus to come back.

It was only when Clarus came back, with water, and curled around Regis, framing the slighter man with his larger form, kissing the damp sweat-soft hair at his temples, that Regis finally sank the rest of the way into his waking sleep, smile playing at the edges of his lips, tucked up against him, siphoning his body heat. “Ridiculous man,” Clarus murmured fondly into his ear, and got a distant laugh in return.

“We aren’t done here,” the King muttered at last, words slurred and inchoate, into the skin over Clarus’ collarbone, feeling his love handles with the kind of vague interest of just wanting him there. “I still have...words for you.”

“Well,” Clarus cupped the back of his head and pulled him over until Regis was half on top of him, limbs akimbo, their knees knocking, “When you can remember what any of them were, we’ll talk.”

Regis laughed again, clearly unspeakably pleased, and if Clarus had managed to bring that fine of an ending to an otherwise-unsatisfactory day, he had done his job utterly and with aplomb.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr and twitter @jonphaedrus


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